“Mama?” I whispered, a little frightened I was losing my mind.
“Come to me, my child…”
I didn’t question the voice I heard. I just did what was wanted of me and floated down the steps to the landing. When I stood before her portrait, I saw that my mother was four fingers taller than me. I wondered if I would grow as tall or even taller. I hoped my figure would be like hers when I became a woman, willowy with delicate curves. I stared at her face. Her beauty was so startling she didn’t seem quite human, but any resemblance between us ended there. All my life, I heard what people said every time they whispered. Servants and villagers always looked at me with malicious pity when they proclaimed what a tragedy it was I didn’t take after my mother.
But that night when I met her eyes, I saw nothing but softness and affection. The scent of lilies grew so strong I was dizzy. In that moment, I knew what love was. I glanced down to my mother’s hands folded over her belly and reached out with one of mine. I remember wondering what her touch would have felt like. Then Papa was there.
“What are you doing here?”
I jumped when I heard him. The fragrance of lilies disappeared and my nostrils burned from the scent of hot oil firing the lamps. The air went cold as I turned to my father standing above me at the top of the steps.
“I said, ‘What are you doing here?’”
I’ll never forget the way he sounded. The measured temperance was gone from his voice, leaving a growl that can only come from a shattered heart. I had never seen him like this. The ferocity contorting his features terri fied me, but there were tears in his eyes.
“I was just visiting Mama.”
My voice felt tiny coming up my throat. I’m not certain Papa even heard me.
He didn’t say anything, freezing us both in place with his silence. I remember that it hurt to breathe, so I didn’t. But I couldn’t stop staring at the knuckles of his hand.
Papa was gripping the banister, his knuckles white. Then something compelled me to look at his face. His gaze flickered between my mother and me before he focused only on me. I think this was the first time he truly looked at me since the day the midwife presented me to him. I thought my chest would burst open from the air trapped in my lungs, but I still couldn’t breathe when I met his mild brown eyes. And I saw nothing there. The wind pushed out of me and my vision blurred from the hot fluid pouring into my eyes and down my cheeks. I didn’t realize they were tears until I saw my father again and his empty gaze. Then I was blinded again, crying for the first time in my life when I knew Papa didn’t love me and never had.
He said something, but I didn’t hear him in my hurried flight to get away from him. I never got to sleep that night. I left my room much later to see if I could be with Mama again, but Papa was still there. He sat on the top step, his long back slumped and his face in his hands, the posture of shame. I believe he wanted to love me. I must admit Papa tried.
I never went to my mother’s portrait after that.
Papa acted as if nothing were amiss after that night. He continued to ask about my studies and my riding. But I kept distant from him, my answers as short as politeness would allow. The change in my manner to him was definitely noticed. My Duenna often frowned, and sometimes I caught her and the Tutor exchanging a glance.
But they never said anything.
Then the Vagabond came and everything changed.
He arrived after my thirteenth birthday. He was in the barn, tapping on the stall of the gray colt that allowed nobody close. I had to look twice when I first saw him. A stranger in patched breeches and grimy shirt with a rucksack next to his feet was too incredible. The boys who worked in the stables seemed just as amazed as I was. One of them whispered that Patron had hired the Vagabond to break in the wild colt. He heard us and turned around.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw his face. He was in his mid-twenties, the youngest Vagabond I’d ever seen. He was surprisingly handsome with high
cheekbones and a square jaw. But it was his vitality that I remember most. His face was alive with expression. His golden brown eyes sparkled and he had the whitest teeth. His smile was broad as he looked between the stable boy and I. Then his gaze settled on me and I had to force myself to hold still.
“That’s right,” he said. “Your Papa hired me as his new Horse Trainer.”
He had a strange accent, but his command of language was effortless. I knew he must be a citizen, but never had a man I didn’t know ever spoken to me in such a familiar manner. It was unsettling and the heat rushing into my cheeks mortified me.
“How do you know who I am?”
“Because I saw you riding and your Papa told me,” he said. “By the way, you shouldn’t run a horse that hard perched on a lady’s saddle. It’s dangerous.”
I went cold when he said that. My back became rigid and I couldn’t stop my hands from clenching. The Horse Trainer glanced at my fists and raised his brows.
“I see you don’t like to hear that,” he said.
“I can ride these horses better than you.”
“I don’t doubt that you can,” he chuckled. “But what if something spooks your mount?”
I glared at him, but he only shrugged.
“The way a lady sits in a saddle,” he continued. “With legs on one side? One wrong move is all it would take and you’d be flying off that horse before you knew what happened.”
“If my father doesn’t object to my riding, I don’t see how you can.”
I was so angry after that meeting, I complained about him to Papa that night at dinner. I had never said an unkind word about a servant or a farmer, and I hoped he would dismiss the Horse Trainer back to his vagabond life. Papa was clearly surprised at my vehemence. But after many detailed questions, he heard all that passed between us and looked slightly amused.
“The new Horse Trainer is certainly not the first to express concern over your riding,” he said. “And I must admit he has a point. I never considered that possibility.”
The Duenna interjected that my riding was both reckless and unladylike. Papa shrugged as he always did and said I should slow down. Yet the Trainer still seemed a threat to the one thing I cherished and I despised him.
I had to admit he was remarkable with the colt. That was the most beautiful animal I’d ever seen, and the most uncontrollable horse Papa had in his stables. His best men tried to break him, and ended up broken themselves. The gentleman who sold my father the colt was horribly embarrassed and offered to buy him back. Papa knew the colt would end at the slaughterhouse if he agreed, and he hated for such a magnificent animal to go to waste. But nobody could handle him. Papa was trying to find a solution when the Vagabond showed up.
I wasn’t the only one who complained when Papa hired him. Everybody was
shocked and many told him he should know better. But once he made up his mind, Papa was never swayed. To each complaint, he gave the same response.
“He’s a man who needs the work. He made it clear he’s willing to risk his life and limbs for this post, which nobody else can do. I’m not one to tell him he can’t have the chance.”
As usual, Papa was right. Only an adventurer could handle the wild gray colt.
There was nothing that horse could do to keep the Trainer off his back. He bucked, swerved, reared, and broke out into a run only to stop suddenly. The Trainer fell to the ground or soared towards the sky time and again. But he’d somersault in the air or through the muck, only to get back on his feet, ready to spring and go at it again. Two weeks passed before the colt stopped fighting him, but his ears flattened every time the Trainer was on him. It was a month before he could coax a bit between his teeth. But once the Trainer had him harnessed in a bridle, the colt was his.
The boys who worked in the stables were often scolded back to work because they could never resist the sight of the Trainer at his work. As much as I disliked him, I couldn’t resist watching either. Now I was also jealous because I wanted to
ride that colt.
It was six weeks after the Trainer came when the accident happened. The irony was that I was riding the gentlest horse in the stables that day. I was feeling out of sorts and the head stable hand mentioned that the black and white mare could do with a run outside. So I agreed to take her. I remember she was going no faster than a canter along the peach orchard at the edge of the fields, the manor and barn neither near nor far, the riding ring in the foreground where the Trainer worked with the colt. I saw he still hadn’t gotten a saddle on its back. The trees were starting to bear fruit and I remember the light aroma of unripe peaches when it happened.
I didn’t understand what was going on, only that my horse stumbled and nearly tripped. I almost fell off when she stepped out of rhythm. But out of habit, I fought to keep my balance and stay on. That was a mistake because the fall wouldn’t have been serious if I’d simply allowed it. I didn’t know a feral dog had taken up chase after the mare and nipped at her heels. I sensed the animal’s fear, but I couldn’t will her to do what I wanted. The horse’s pace became erratic and I couldn’t figure out where to lean to keep my balance. I felt it when the mare’s fear escalated into panic. Then I realized I had nothing to hold onto except strands of mane.
Everything happened so fast that I can’t recall all of it. I remember farmers rushing towards me from the fields and hearing a familiar voice shouting at me to jump off the mare, but I couldn’t move. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. When the horse reared, I held desperately to those coarse hairs of mane. That voice was still shouting at me to let go and fall, but all I could think was that I had to stay on the horse. Somehow I managed to.
Next thing I knew, I heard a loud blast. The mare’s panic exploded and she threw me to the sky. She knocked the breath out of me, and pulled my fingers from her mane with a buck of her hind legs. I was flying. There was a moment of euphoria as I rose to the blueness of a clear day. Then I felt myself fall and the terror returned. I closed my eyes to my coming doom, but I remember I never screamed.
The impact was not what I expected. I expected crushing pain when I hit the ground, but what I felt was hard and soft, both a warmth and a strength. I didn’t realize I was pressed against flesh and muscle and bone, not even when his arms squeezed me close. I kept my eyes shut because I was afraid I would hurt if I opened them. The sensation of spinning confused me, my legs still soaring through the air while my torso was secure. His breath blew against my ear the moment I heard the beat of his heart, its rhythm strong and steady. Then I knew somebody had caught me. The momentum of spinning slowed down until my feet touched the ground. My legs, hips, back, and head melted against solid earth when he laid me down.
Then I heard that voice as he shook me gently.
“Little miss,” he said. “Little miss, it’s all right. You’re safe.”
I opened my eyes and looked into the purity of another soul. The Trainer was leaning over me. His face was pale, but in the depths of his eyes, I saw a kindness born from something other than pity, something beautiful I had never seen in my life. It was so stunning that I couldn’t bear it. I closed my eyes again and started to shake. The trembling was the most violent I’d ever known. It consumed every part of me and I couldn’t make it stop.
The Trainer made soothing noises and pulled me close. His strength was a
comfort when he rocked me back and forth. My head was pressed against his chest, the Trainer’s hand warm as he rubbed the length of my back. When I felt the beat of his heart, I started to cry. Nobody had ever touched me like that.
I could sense my father’s presence when all fell quiet and the Trainer’s arms went stiff. Tension pierced the cocoon. I turned around.
What I saw didn’t seem quite real. The only motion was the gray colt trotting back and forth with reins trailing along the ground. Several farmers were there, frozen in place. One held the mare by the bridle and another hung his head with rifle in hand.
A slain dog was not far from his feet. Although they didn’t move, the farmers cast furtive glances between Papa and us. I looked up at the Trainer and saw him glaring at those men in disgust, his hand continuing to stroke my back. Somehow that reassured me.
Papa scanned the scene for a moment before he dismounted. When his feet
touched the ground, the farmer who shot the dog rushed to him, full of tears and remorse for his part in the accident. Papa consoled him that no harm had come of it.
Then he approached us. His touch was strange when he brushed my shoulder lightly. I stared at his hand until he pulled it back.
“Are you all right?” he finally asked.
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. So I nodded.
“Well, pull yourself together, Child. You can ride back with me.”
Then Papa glanced at the wild gray colt still trotting back and forth and peered at the Trainer.
“Excellent work,” he said. “I’d like to see you in my study as soon as possible.”
When I got home, I was put to bed with soup and a thick mug of hot chocolate, my favorite drink. The Doctor came and examined me. He said he couldn’t find any injuries, but the Cook still boiled some hot compresses and my maid pressed them along my back. As I was drifting off, the Cook said the Trainer was given an increase in wages and the responsibility of escorting me on my rides. I frowned, but fell asleep believing that all I heard was from a dream.
The next morning, when I found out that was true I was both offended and
excited. I resented losing some of my freedom, but I still remembered how it felt when the Trainer stroked my back. Yet it was a week before I could go to the barn. I had never been afraid to ride in my life, but every night I had nightmares about those moments when I couldn’t control the horse. I always woke up shaking just when the mare threw me off her back. As the days passed, my restlessness grew stronger than my fear and I returned to the stables.
The Trainer was waiting for me. He must have made even more progress with the wild colt, for the animal now donned both a saddle and bridle. When I saw the black and white mare made ready for me, the blood drained from my face and I had the sudden urge to retch.
“You know you have to,” he said. “You will always be afraid if you don’t get back on this horse.”
I nodded because I knew he was right. I also knew the Trainer was right when he insisted we ride along the peach orchard. But the mare tensed when he led us to the place where the dog had attacked, which made me even more uncertain. I had never felt precarious in a saddle before, but on this morning, I was teetering in my seat. The Trainer rode beside us in our first two passes along the orchard. But after running another length, instinct took over and I finally relaxed into the mare’s rhythm. Her pace steadied with the return of my confidence. The Trainer stopped and watched me run the mare a few rounds along the peach trees. Then I was ready to move on and reined to a stop beside him.
“This is boring,” I said.
“I assume you must be feeling better,” he chuckled. “Where do you want to go?”
“How about the fields on the other side of town? Or the woods east of the house.”
The Trainer didn’t say anything at first, his golden brown eyes intent when he looked at me. The way he was staring made me blush. I hated it whenever I did that, but there was no stopping the blood rushing to my cheeks. However, I resisted the urge to glance away.
“Little miss, do you know somewhere there’s no folks to be seen?”
His question surprised me and I didn’t answer right away. But I was also curious as to what he wanted, and played along.
“The only place I can think of is the Abandoned Valley. Nobody ever goes there.”
“The Abandoned Valley?”
I remembered he wasn’t from here and pointed northwest of the fields.
“It runs on both sides of the river. South until the Ancient Grove, then north until you get to the No Man’s Land at the border.”
“That sounds a nice
spot,” he said. “Why doesn’t anybody go there?”
“Same reason nobody goes into those woods, because of the Sorcerer. Haven’t you heard about him yet?”
I flushed even harder when the Trainer burst out laughing.
“What are you doing? It’s not funny.”
“Oh come on!” he said. “You’re a smart girl. You don’t believe those stories, do you?”
“The Sorcerer of the Caverns is real!” I protested. “Even my father won’t go there.”
“Well,” the Trainer said, his eyes twinkling, “if we should meet this Sorcerer, I’m sure I can fight off the dirty old cuss.”
It was the first time I met anybody who doubted the existence of the Sorcerer and I had never been more shocked in my life. All I could do was shake my head.
The Trainer stopped laughing when he took a good look at my face. His fingers tapped the front of his saddle for a moment and his manner was much gentler when he spoke.
“I promise you we’ll go far from the woods. I’m sure it’ll be okay if we stay close to the border in the northwest.”
His tone was very persuasive and his persistence made me suspicious. It was my turn to stare inside of him. I always found when people want to do something they know is wrong, their faces take on the likeness of a rodent. I’ve seen those rat expressions on the children from Sunday school whenever they taunted the butcher’s son. I’ve seen it on the Cook the first time she gossiped after facing Papa’s ire. But the Trainer didn’t have that sly, guarded look.
“Papa would dismiss you for even making a suggestion like this.”
I was surprised when the Trainer nodded.
“Absolutely, he would.”
“Then why do you want to go there?”
Looking back, the magnitude of the risk he was taking steals my breath away. I could have told Papa everything and ruined him. If the Trainer offended my father, he would never get another post again, not even for a day’s work.
“Because I want to teach you how to ride like a man,” he said. “I’ve been trying to convince the Patron since I started. But he refuses, even after your accident.”
The Heart of the Lone Wolf Page 6